


Daylight

by orphan_account



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:12:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'When the daylight comes, then I'll have to go--but tonight I'm gonna hold you so close.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daylight

There is no sound in their bedroom but the soft snuffles of Marc's even breathing, and the ticking of the clock on the chest of drawers. Marcel listens carefully, and is sure it is ticking faster than it was half an hour ago, taunting him with its sound: its 'tick-tock' becoming 'not-long, not-long, not-long'. He feels his chest tighten, sees his neatly packed bags lined up in front of the wardrobe; wishes he didn't have to go.

Tomorrow—actually, today; in far too short a time—he will fly off to America for a six-month promotional tour. He can't believe it's happening _right now_ , he doesn't know how it has come around so fast. He was excited when Feliciano had called to tell him it was being organised—that their series of children's books had taken off so well in America; that the publishers wanted both author and illustrator to follow up on that success—but it was only once the excitement had worn off that the significance had sunk in.

Six months. Without Marc.

Next to Marcel's suitcase at the end of the bed, hangs Marc's suit. Marcel normally loves that suit, loves buttoning Marc into its waistcoat and knotting the grey silk tie that he wears with it, but now he hates it. Because, tomorrow, Marc has to wear it to court, for a particularly important case for which he has been preparing his prosecution for months. For a case that he cannot get out of, a case that is lengthy and complicated: a case that is preventing him from travelling with Marcel.

Six months.

Marcel glances at the clock again. Surely it can't be right, it can't really be three am? It must be a mistake. He can't have been laying here for three hours already; it feels like only fifteen minutes ago that they turned out the lights.

Marcel looks lovingly at the slumbering form beside him, and thinks how beautiful he is, how perfectly they fit together. Marc murmurs something in his sleep, and his leg twitches; Marcel kisses the top of his head and thinks again what an awfully long time six months is. It's one week, three days and seven hours longer than they've been dating; it seems astonishingly unfair that they should be apart longer than they've been together.

He thinks he could never get tired of looking at Marc, could gaze at him and drink him in forever, but the clock is ticking more insistently. Marcel forces his eyes to stay open, refuses to waste a single moment of the time they have left in sleep. Instead, he wraps his arms tightly around Marc and marvels at his perfection. How will he be able to manage six months without kissing Marc, without hearing the comforting thump of his heart, without smelling his warm, sleepy smell?

Six months.

Marc snores softly in the circle of Marcel's arms, his nose pressed against Marcel's chest. Marcel wonders how he will be able to sleep alone, without the sound of Marc's breathing beside him. He knows he will miss Marc's voice.

Feliciano had laughed at Marcel, told him that's what phones are for. He said that Marcel would be able to talk to Marc every day and, if it was other sounds he meant, well, phone sex could be pretty spectacular, too. Marcel doesn't think Feliciano really understands.

A memory comes, unbidden, of the first time he met Marc. It had been at the launch party for the eighth book, he had come along with Marcel's friend Tommy and Marcel had been fascinated. He had never met a barrister before, had been surprised by how easy their conversation had been; they had talked all night. The next day Tommy had called Marcel, told him to give Marc his number; said that Marc had really liked him. Marcel had laughed it off, thinking that someone so smart and professional could never be interested in a mere illustrator.

Six months.

He wonders how he will manage to get through six months without kissing Marc; wonders if he can get six months worth of kissing into the next few hours. He thinks it's worth a try, presses his lips to Marc's cheek, revelling in the way his skin tastes. But his touch disturbs Marc, who rolls over and looks at him blearily.

'It's late, nano, go to sleep,' then he kisses Marcel sleepily and snuggles down deeper into his arms. Marcel lifts a hand and touches his mouth, remembering their first kiss.

Despite Tommy's advice, he hadn't dared give Marc his number—but it didn't matter, as they had bumped into each other again at Feliciano's Christmas party. This time, not only they had spent all night talking, but Marc kissed him under the mistletoe. And then kissed him some more. Even now, nearly six months later, Marcel could still remember exactly how wonderful Marc had tasted that night.

Six months.

Marc's leg twitches again, and his foot brushes Marcel's ankle. Marcel leans into the touch, and wonders if that's what he will miss the most—not the sexual touches, but the little, almost thoughtless ones; the reassurance of knowing that he can just reach out and Marc will be there.

After the Christmas party Marcel hadn't dared hope he would hear from Marc again. Feliciano had teased him for jumping every time the phone rang, and for blushing the time the phone rang and it had been Marc. Marcel had been on dates before, but nothing had felt as exciting as the one he arranged with Marc. He agreed to go ice skating, even though he couldn't skate—could barely even stand up on skates—but, somehow, it had been perfect. Marc had spent more time helping Marcel back up than skating, but they had held hands, and Marcel had finally got the hang of it, and when he kissed Marc's cold, red nose all the aches and embarrassment went away.

Six months.

 

He buries his nose in Marc's hair, breathing in the smell of it, knowing that even though he has stocked up on bottles of the same shampoo, it won't be the same on his hair.

He thinks of the first time he bought that shampoo. They had been dating a few weeks and at the end of the evening Marc had—with a deep blush that Marcel thought made him even more adorable—shyly invited him back for coffee. Marcel had spent most of that night awake, too, but for very different reasons. It had been incredible; no-one had ever made him feel that way before. In the morning, Marc had been in a hurry to get to court, so they had showered together. Marc had stood on tiptoes to wash Marcel's hair and, on the way home, Marcel had called into the first chemist he passed. He hadn't dared use the shampoo, in case Marc noticed it; instead, he had kept it safely hidden for when he needed to remember.

Six months.

Marc mumbles in his sleep and curls up closer into Marcel's body. Marcel isn't sure if the prickling in his eyes is tiredness or unshed tears, is struggling to concentrate at all now, but he still fights to keep his eyes open. He gazes intently at Marc, wanting to commit every tiny detail of his face to memory; knowing that all too soon memory is all he'll have. He runs through the contents of his suitcase in his mind for the dozenth time, reassuring himself that, yes, he did pack the sketches he had done of Marc, and all the photos he had taken (both as printed copies and back-ups stored on both his laptop and his phone). He wonders if Feliciano will think he's mad if he covers his hotel room with pictures of Marc.

He squeezes Marc tighter and tries telling himself that, as the not-quite six months he and Marc had been together had gone so fast, these six months might pass just as quickly.  
For the first time, makes himself think beyond the six months they would be apart; allows himself to imagine how it will feel when this is over.

Six months.

Outside the window, the sky is growing lighter. Inside, Marcel's eyes are burning and growing heavy. He tells himself that he will be home for Christmas, tells himself that after this they will never have to be apart again. A glance at the clock shows it is nearly five o'clock. Marcel feels the time rushing away with him, wishes there was some way to slow it down. He burrows down deeper against Marc, as if by cuddling him tightly enough he could somehow absorb his essence, and the daydreams begin of his return: of holidays they will take, and Christmases they will share, and how wonderful it will be to be able to hold Marc without the oppressive tick of the clock counting down the time they have left.

Gradually, the tick of the clock fades, replaced by the sound of Marc's heartbeat, and Marcel's mind wanders.

Six months. Just six months. And then, the rest of their lives.

The clock ticks round to six am, but Marcel is no longer awake, his head filled with dreams of Marc: of what has been, and what is yet to come.


End file.
